


Are We Cool Now?

by toomuchplor



Series: Unkissed [5]
Category: Inception (2010) RPF, The Dark Knight Rises (2012) RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pillow mints are overrated anyway.</p>
<p><b>Content Notes:</b> Barebacking first time, explicit, as well as some sort of vague sizekink and slight D/s undertones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are We Cool Now?

**Author's Note:**

> Lately needed something to distract her from a boring day, so I went ahead and wrote something pretty filthy. In the Unkissed 'verse, set in February 2012. Joe's done Sundance and goes to visit Tom in London. As one does. 
> 
> Title is from "The Indie Queens Are Waiting" by Dan Mangan. Thanks to xenakis for suggestions and hand-holding while I moaned about how I hate naming fics. Also for an interesting discussion about the word "parsimony", which does not appear in the fic below.

Joseph is like a little kid with chopsticks, the way he traps the noodles and then dangles them over his open mouth, chin tilted up, biting his way up to the bamboo.

"There's beer too, if you want it," Tom prompts, sitting back on the couch opposite, watching.  He's not hungry, himself, but he's happy enough to keep Joe company while he fills the gaping maw that is his stomach after a transatlantic flight. Joe hates airline food and is sort of shit at planning ahead.  His first text off the plane (presumably sent while he was still standing in the customs queue) had been _get thai food. dying._

"No beer, thanks, I'd be drunk in about half a second," Joseph answers. "Trust me, I drank enough this past week to last me for a while."  He's scraping down the sides of the take-away carton now, but he's finally lost a bit of the urgency with which he'd dug in at first.  "Thanks for this," he says now, looking up, dimpling at Tom.  "And thanks for," he adds, waving his chopsticks in a circle to take in Tom's flat.

Tom quirks his mouth, never quite sure where politeness stops and sincerity begins with Joseph, even after the months they've been together.  "Don't get too excited," Tom tells him. "I haven't laid out the guest towels or turned down the bed."

"Well," Joe says, setting down the carton, neatly wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, "in that case, we should just fuck here."

Tom utters about half a laugh before he cottons on that Joseph is one hundred fucking percent serious now, Joe on Tom's sofa with a balled up napkin in his fist, wearing glasses and Levi's and the striped hoodie he lives in when he's not on the red carpet. They'd had a bit of a snog when Joe had come through the door twenty minutes earlier, but that had been derailed by the smell of yellow curry and the niceties of showing Joe around the flat, which he'd never seen before today.  It's only been a couple of weeks since they were together in Los Angeles, which is a very short interval apart in the landscape of their relationship; Tom had told himself not to expect —

— "That whole last hour of the flight, all I could do was imagine getting naked with you," Joe says, breaking into Tom's inner monologue in his damnably casual and sweet and charming way.  Joe tosses the napkin onto the coffee table in front of him and hitches his hips away from the back of the couch so he can work his belt open.  "It's weird, I haven't had time to think about anything but Sundance since you left, but it's like all that stuff I wasn't thinking about is coming to the surface all at once now."  He yanks his fly open and raises his arse up, shoves his jeans down his thighs and then kicks them off along with his shoes.  When he settles back down the line of his half-hard cock is clear through the clinging fabric of his boxer-briefs.

Joe goes on stripping as though he can't see the effect he's having on Tom (which, Tom thinks, must be glaringly apparent between the way Tom's leaning forward to watch avidly and the way he can’t help wriggling in his seat as he gets hard).  Hoodie next, then Joe tugs his t-shirt over his head, and last of all he ditches his glasses to the side.  "Are you going to come here?" he asks, beaming, squinting a little, lean and warm and lovely in his little grey pants on Tom's couch.  "Or should I come over there?"

"I don't know," Tom says, rousing himself out of his daze to answer.  "I rather like the show."

"I think we’ve had enough of seeing and not touching," Joe says, pushing his curly longish hair back from his forehead, a small frown clouding his face.  "Come here."

"No, you come here," Tom tells him, breathless with needing him suddenly.  "Come here, come," and he's still halfway through trying to phrase his desperation when Joe lands on him, one long tight thigh on either side of Tom's lap, arms hooked around Tom's neck.

"I still don't know about the beard," Joe says thoughtfully, catching the point of Tom's chin in the V of his thumb and index finger, tipping Tom's face up for closer inspection.  "I feel like I'm fucking a sea captain."

Tom flickers his eyebrows, amused, and licks his lips.

"Yeah," says Joe, like Tom said something, "no, you're right, it's kind of awesomely pornographic when you do that though," and he dips his head down, comes up on his knees a bit more as he goes to kiss Tom, the sort of kiss that's not camera-ready but feels fantastic, slippery suggestive tip of his tongue darting in like he's tasting a very different part of Tom.  Tom doesn't decide to do it, just finds his palms locked tight on Joseph's narrow waist, thumbs digging in just over the hollows of his hipbones, pulling Joe closer until he loses his centre of balance a little and rocks close enough for Tom to feel the glancing press of his hard cock against Tom's belly through layers of t-shirt and underwear.  It's enough to inspire Tom to pull back and tug at the hem of his shirt, yank it up and over his head, and he's barely gotten it off his arm when Joe's on him again, making little hungry pleased sounds like Tom's better than the pad thai that's still lingering warm on Joe's breath.

It's good like that, kissing chest to chest, Joe's hands feeling Tom up, squeezing his shoulders and his biceps and his pecs. For his part Tom can't help moving his hands around and squeezing Joe's arse in two handfuls, Joe's lovely taut arse that pushes back into the pressure while Joe gasps against Tom's mouth.  "Can I?" Tom asks, loving the heat of Joe's skin just under the cotton, the slip-shift of muscle contracting in his grip.  "I want to fuck you."

Joe makes a muffled sound and buries his hot face against Tom's neck while his hips work his cock against Tom's belly again, more deliberately now.  "If you don't I'm going to fucking go insane," he says, coming up for air red-cheeked and panting.  "Tell me you have lube."

"I have lube," Tom says obediently.  "It's under the pillow in the bedroom."

Joe cracks up at this. "No turn-down service but KY at the ready? This is the best hotel ever."  He springs back in one of his trademark feats of agility, on his feet before Tom can do much more than blink.  "Do you want to come with me or should I bring it back here?"

Tom is tempted to stay put for a moment but then he thinks about Joe sprawled out on his sheets, Joe in Tom's bed, and he gathers the coordination needed to stand up, follow Joe to the bedroom.  The bed's made, duvet tugged up in deference to Joe's compulsive neatness, but it's the work of a second to pull it down again and snap up the bottle of lube he'd left at the ready.

"No condoms," Joe says — difficult to discern if it's a question or an order.  Difficult to think at all, because Joe's abruptly lost his pants and is lying naked and hard and smiling up at Tom.  "I haven't done that before."

"Nor me," Tom admits.

"You have a kid," Joe points out, amused.

"No, with," Tom says confusedly, muddled by Joe's nudity, his beauty, all the things Tom wants to do to him. The cap of the lube bottle is damnably difficult to manage in his current state.  Tom is still wearing jeans.  "With a man, I've never," he says, and the cap pops open with a spurt of lube while Joe laughs.  Tom struggles for some sort of sense. “Do you mean, you've never fucked bare? Not a girlfriend on the pill, even?"

"No," says Joe, shrugging.  "I'm kind of — paranoid."

Tom grins broadly and knees his way onto the mattress, thriftily using the lube on his fingers to stroke Joe's cock so his breath catches and his eyelids sag and flutter.  "How romantic for me, then," Tom says, meaning it, and meaning to make Joe smile too, which he does.

"I heard it doesn't feel that different for the bottom anyway," Joe says, but he's all dimples when he arches up to kiss Tom, his hands working to get Tom's jeans open.

"No, it doesn't," Tom agrees between kisses, "except you'll feel it, when I come," and Joe makes an unearthly sound and is a bit rough with how he shoves Tom's jeans down, how he wraps his hand around Tom's cock and jacks it.  "And after," Tom says, kicking the jeans off, urging Joe over on the mattress, "after, you'll feel how wet I made you, my come will," but there's no point in trying to talk with Joseph going to pieces and the lube bottle dripping messily as Tom tries to get his fingers nice and slick while Joe kisses him and pulls on his cock.  "Okay, okay," Tom says, knocking Joe's hand away, "give me a second, fuck."

"Oh my god," Joe says, flopping back down onto the bed, "sorry, that just — sounds fucking hot.  I — get inside me."

Tom nudges Joe's thighs a bit further apart and pushes a finger in without much teasing. Joe's come a long way since that night in the hotel in Pittsburgh; he doesn't need coaxing, just opens around Tom with a little pleased sigh and a smile.  Tom wonders sometimes if Joseph could even — would even — do this with only spit as lube; he guesses some desperate day they'll find out.

For now, though, Tom's perfectly content to sit back on his knees and watch how easily Joe takes it, one finger and then another, a third corkscrewing in while Joe grinds his heels into the bed and makes soft deep sounds.  "It's better when it's you," he says, flushed, bowing shoulders back and panting, "I don't know why, if it's the angle or the size of your hands, but — fuck, fuck, there — it's not the same when it's me."

"Can I try a fourth?" Tom asks, a little dizzied by the gorgeousness of Joe. "I think you can take four."

"Fuck yes," Joe says, and opens his mouth wide in a silent shout when Tom obliges without any warning.  It's tight around Tom's hand but Joseph takes it beautifully, stays hard through it, curls his toes and makes noises that Tom will never refer to as squeaks, and then fucks himself down onto Tom's hand when Tom's too stunned to move.  "No, it's," he says, and shakes his head, "I want your cock, come on."

Tom pulls his hand free and slicks up, trying not to notice how he's shaking, trying to think of ways to make this last because there's nothing between him and Joseph, nothing — Tom lies down over Joe first, kisses him while Joe wriggles and tries to line them up without any assistance from Tom.

"Shh, I've got you," Tom reassures him, and lets his weight drop down a bit more, pinning Joe.  Tom's not the heavyweight he was when they fucked the first time but he's still got some significant muscle on Joe, and it's not too difficult to hold him still when Tom wants him still.  He can't help underlining this point a little by nosing Joe's head to the side and closing his teeth around the slender stem of Joe's neck.  Joe jerks with surprise and goes quiet almost as quickly, breathing hard but not saying anything in protest while Tom holds steady, not biting down, just letting Joe feel the pressure of his incisors, the blade of his tongue.  When Tom eases up and lifts his head to see how Joseph's doing — Joe's all-pupil, flared nostrils and slack mouth, breathing hard and fast but otherwise just waiting, waiting for Tom.  "That's it," Tom says, pleased, and reaches down, glides a hand up the underside of Joe's thigh and holds it until Joe catches up and takes over so Tom can balance on one palm and line himself up with the other hand, push inside in a slow delicious thrust.

"Oh my fucking god," Joe says, blinking and staring but not really looking at anything in particular.  "No, I can definitely — that's different, fuck."

"Very different," Tom agrees, hitching Joe's leg up over his shoulder and pushing a little deeper.  "Is that — is it?"

Joseph nods even though Tom hardly knows himself what he means, eyes blinking heavily and hands gripping at Tom, his back, his arse.

"So," Tom says, getting his knees under him a little better, shifting his hold on Joe, "so, why don't we have one of those mad desperate shags that's over embarrassingly quickly?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Joe says, breaking into a grin that almost immediately tips back into an open-mouthed gasp. "Jesus, your cock," he says, which is all the inspiration Tom could have wanted if he needed any.

It's too good; Joe's crap at lying back and letting Tom fuck him, he always fucks Tom right back, sinuous hips and urgent noises and maddeningly limber thighs, colliding hard with Tom, snapping up into him, exhorting Tom to fuck him _harder, yeah_ , like Tom's not already doing the best he can. And Joe's hot around Tom, sweaty and clinging and bare, and he keeps uttering half-formed sentences that are pure delightful filth, how wet it feels without a condom, how smooth, how Joe can feel the lip of Tom's foreskin when Tom pulls out almost all the way.  Tom fucks him and fucks him, and Joe fucks and fucks back, and Tom's nearly convinced he's going to fly apart with it, going to spin round like a Catherine wheel and whirl off the bed and out the door flinging sparks everywhere when he comes, which is going to be — any second, any fucking —

"Fuck your hand, I'm going to," Tom warns Joseph, folding him properly in two and trying very hard to keep his hips moving in not-quite-fast-enough circles, "oh, fuck, I'm going to."

"No, I don't want to come before you," Joe says, "I want to feel it, come in me."

Tom's hips snap up and in, three or four quick-deep thrusts, and then he's there, staring down at Joe and coming inside him and somewhat surprised that he hasn't actually turned into a firework.  Joe's leg slips off Tom's shoulder as he eases down to grant lazy pleased kisses, and it's funny actually, funny now that Tom's gone toneless as a pad thai noodle dangling over a chopstick, and hanging over Joe's open mouth too.  Tom laughs and drops kisses and shifts his hips idly to feel the sweet-dirty slip of his cock and his come inside Joseph.

"Okay, hilarious," Joe says, grinning and tipping his head to let Tom nuzzle his ears.  "Can you at least get up a little so I can jerk off while you're still hard?"

"No," says Tom, selfishly amused, wriggling against Joe's hard cock like a hot brand between their bellies.  "I like you like this."

"I don't like me like this," Joe protests, but he's still smiling.

"Yes you do," Tom returns, "you like being held right here, I know you do."

Joe laughs and shakes his head and tries to hold Tom in place so he can rut up against him, but Tom slips away, gets back on his knees, reaches between them and pulls out slowly so Joe can miss every inch.  Tom's not heartless, though; he's swift enough to replace his cock with his thumb, which goes in easy on the slick of lube and come.  “Say, while you're down there," Joe says, and then throws in a leer and a silver screen-sounding "schweetheart," for good measure.

"Bossy," Tom says, but goes down anyway. Joe's on the brink, still; it takes only two or three long sucks, a few thrusts of Tom's thumb, before Joe exhales hard and scrubs his hand over Tom's head in warning.  Tom lets it be a little messy when Joe comes; the sheets are fucked anyway between the drips of lube, the smears of Tom's come, and besides Tom thinks that Joe might need more convincing about beards being visually appealing.  It's difficult not to be fond of something when you've shot your load on it, Tom's found.

"Sick," says Joe when Tom comes back up the mattress for more kisses, but he's still smiling when he swipes at Tom's face, when he gets Tom by the back of the neck and drags him close to taste.  "Later we're doing that again, slower," Joseph promises.  "After you shave."

"Did you eat all the satay?" Tom asks. "I'm starving."

"You weren't hungry," Joe says, and tips Tom to the side, worms away from the wet spot.

"Worked up an appetite, didn’t I?” Tom answers.  "You sleep, I'm off to forage."

"I'm not tired," Joe says, and closes his eyes as he sinks his head into the pillow.  He's out before Tom even gets to his feet.


End file.
